


Winter Winds

by Proudmoore



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: AU, Fluff, House Call, Other, Reader Insert, Sick Fic, small town doctor AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 17:57:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18722083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proudmoore/pseuds/Proudmoore
Summary: A terrible flu has you confined to the bed and unwilling to go out in a snow storm to see a doctor.  Luckily for you, the new hire at the town's clinic makes house calls.





	Winter Winds

You’ve tried everything.

Bed rest, fluids, homemade soup, over-the-counter cold medicines; heck, you’ve even tried sending up a prayer or two.  None of it has done anything to help the aching in your muscles and the congestion in your chest and your sinuses.  Whatever infection you’ve picked up is wreaking havoc on your body unchecked.

Climbing out of the hot, steamy shower you’ve spent the last half hour in in an attempt to clear your sinuses, you wrap a towel around yourself and pad into your bedroom, perching yourself on your bed.  You reach for the thermometer on your night stand, slide it under your tongue, and wait.  You pull it out again when it beeps and frown at the display.  Sighing, you reach for your phone, cursing softly under your breath as you glance outside at the heavy snowfall you know you’ll have to face to get to the town clinic.

You dial the familiar number for your doctor’s office, smiling a little at the familiarity of the voice on the other end of the line.

“Aspen Meadows Medical Clinic, Christine speaking, how may I help you?”

“Since when do you pick up the phone?”  You ask teasingly.  “I thought for sure you’d be up to your elbows in patients with this snow storm going on.”

Christine laughs softly.

“I don’t think anyone wants to chance the roads in this weather for anything short of imminent death.”

She’s probably right, of course, and you happen to agree.  Still, you feel awful and you know it would probably be best for you to see a doctor, so you gather your resolve and forge ahead.

“Well, I’m going to have to chance them, I think,” you explain.  “I’ve been sick for a week and I’m not getting any better.  I think it’s time I have it looked at.”

Christine makes a wordless noise of sympathy.  

“If you’re as sick as you sound, I don’t want you taking your chances out there.  You’re in luck, though; our new doctor does house calls.”

You frown for a moment.  You do remember Christine mentioning a new doctor recently, but the thought of having someone unfamiliar come into your home to examine you puts you on edge.  You’re not the biggest fan of doctors in the first place and the idea of having one over for a visit makes you uneasy.  

Christine seems to sense your discomfiture as the silence rings in the air and she jumps in to reassure you.

“He’s an excellent physician, and he’s very nice.  I think you’d like him.”

You know that Christine’s recommendations are almost always on the mark and that her praise is not freely given, so hearing such accolades from her reassures you that the doctor really must be something special.  Chewing your lip a moment in contemplation, you eventually agree.

“Alright,” you decide.  “Sure, send him over.  Just let me know when I can expect him.”

You hear a soft clacking noise in the background as Christine rifles through the bookings for the day on her computer.

“Dr. Medina has things covered here in the clinic, so he should be fine to head out shortly.  Just keep an eye out in the next half hour or so.”

“Thanks, Chris,” you murmur hoarsely, clearing your throat.  “You’re a lifesaver.”

She chuckles softly.

“I’ve always got your back, Jules.  Now go take care of yourself, I’ve got some charting to finish up.  Text me later and tell me how it goes.”

You say your farewells and hang up, setting your phone aside and moving to make yourself somewhat more presentable.  You choose your newest, least-worn pair of pajamas and throw on a house coat over top before sliding your feet into slippers and padding out to the kitchen.

You move about your cozy little kitchen, watching the snowfall outside.  The sky is a bleak gray color and you feel chilled in spite of your heater being turned up almost all the way.  Hoping to shake the shivering, you put a kettle of water on for tea and sit yourself down at the counter as you wait for it to heat.

You glance at the clock as the minutes tick by, watching the minute hand approach the half hour mark Christine had indicated.  You steep your tea distractedly, pulling your house coat tighter around your shoulders as the chill continues to plague you.  Wrapping your fingers around your tea cup, you let the heat from the ceramic sink into your palms, easing your discomfort just the smallest bit.

A knock on the door startles you a minute or two later, causing you to slosh your tea, scalding your fingers a little bit.  You hiss as you wipe your hands off on your housecoat, making your way to the door.  A glance out the window reveals an unfamiliar blue pickup truck parked in the driveway behind your own vehicle and a set of footprints through the snow leading up to your porch.  A quick peek through the peephole shows a man clad in a thick winter jacket and trapper hat.  Stepping back, you unlock the door and pull it open, stepping aside to make room.  “Come in,” you insist, shivering as the biting winter wind sweeps a swirl of snowflakes in through the doorway.

He nods, flashing you a friendly smile as he moves inside.  You push the door closed in his wake and move into the living room as he kicks off his boots.  As he shakes the snow off of his coat, you take a moment to get a closer look at him.  He’s roguishly handsome, his skin ruddy from the cold, and looks nothing like most of the doctors you’re used to.  He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a plaid button down shirt - more lumberjack than physician.  He’s got a small, red duffel bag in one hand and it’s embroidered with the trademark snake and staff logo that everyone equates with medicine.  You smile as he steps in from the mudroom and meets your gaze.

“Thank you,” he says, his deep voice warming you, instantly putting you at ease.  “I’m Dr. McCoy, and you must be Jules.”  

He reaches out to shake your hand and you hiss a little as he grasps yours firmly, aggravating the minor burns from the tea you spilled a minute or two earlier.

“Are you alright?”  He asks, immediately loosening his grip as you recoil.

“Fine,” you reply.  “Just a silly kitchen accident, it’s no big deal.  It’s this flu or whatever that I called about.”

Dr. McCoy nods, gesturing for you to lead the way into the house.  

“I might as well take a look at everything while I’m here,” he offers.  “Really, it’s no trouble.”

He follows you over to the kitchen counter, eyeing the puddle of tea around your mug as you lean a hip against the granite near the sink.  He sets his duffel down and joins you, reaching out a hand to take yours.  His touch stings the raw spots a little but you bite back a wince as he inspects the small burns.  Pain aside, his touch is gentle and not at all unpleasant and you relax a little.

“You got lucky, they’re only first degree,” he explains after a moment.  “Nothing a little cooling won’t soothe.”

He reaches over with his free hand and turns on your cold water tap, carefully guiding your injured hand toward the stream.  You hiss as the water hits your sensitive, injured skin and the doctor murmurs a soft apology as he holds your hand under the faucet.  The pain starts to recede as the minutes tick by and just as you start to feel like you can’t handle much more of the cold, Dr. McCoy reaches out to turn off the tap.  He releases your hand and you reach for a hand towel, drying off as he picks up his bag once more.

“Now, let’s take a look at the rest of you,” he suggests.  

You suddenly feel a little bit shy at the thought of the pending exam and you feel your cheeks heat a little.  Straightening up, you gesture toward the hallway.

“Is the bedroom okay, or would the couch be better?”  You ask, unusure.  “I’ve never done this before…”

“Wherever you’re most comfortable,” the doctor replies with a smile, winking.  “The only thing for you to do is relax and let me do all the hard work.”

You chew on your lip for a moment and finally decide on the bedroom, figuring he’ll have more space to work without a coffee table in the way.  You turn and make your way toward your room, the doctor tracking close behind.  You feel the room around you spin a little bit as a sudden bout of dizziness plagues you and you grip a nearby door frame to prop yourself up.  You feel the doctor’s hand come to grip your elbow, gently supporting you.

“Are you alright?”

You nod weakly, taking a moment to steady yourself before straightening up and pulling away from his grasp.

“Fine, thanks; this congestion is just throwing my balance off.”

He makes a wordless noise of sympathy and gently urges you forward, following you into your bedroom.  As he sets his kit down and begins to unpack a few things, you slip out of your housecoat and hang it on a hook on the back of the door.  You climb up onto the bed, sitting propped up against the headboard and folding your hands idly in your lap.

Dr. McCoy joins you a moment later, perching on the edge of the bed and facing you, his stethoscope hung around his neck.  He flashes you a friendly smile and sweeps his gaze over you head to toe, taking in your overall condition.

“Seeing as you’ve just been drinking hot tea, I’m afraid we’ll have to take your temperature the hard way.”

Your heart skips uneasily at his words and you fear for what’s to come.  Thankfully your anxiety is relieved momentarily as he holds up a digital thermometer with a chuckle.  He reaches out and sweeps it across your forehead, glancing at the readout as you take a moment to shake off the thoughts of what you had assumed he’d meant by the hard way.

You’re snapped out of your reverie as he asks you some questions, reaching out to check your pulse at the same time.  His fingertips wrap easily around your wrist and you try not to ruminate too hard on the feeling of his touch as you describe the kinds of symptoms you’ve been experiencing.  If he notices that your heart rate is a little bit elevated then he doesn’t mention it, he just keeps his fingertips in place for a long minute as he finishes getting some background information.

You watch him as he works to check your ears and throat.  Moving on, he gently presses down over your sinuses.  The tenderness beneath his fingertips makes you wince a little and he stops immediately, giving you a respite from the discomfort.

“Doing alright?”  He asks.

You nod.

“Fine,” you rasp.  “I expected some discomfort, it’s no big deal.”

Dr. McCoy smiles.

“As long as you let me know if it’s too much,” he murmurs.  “Pushing you past the limits of your comfort isn’t my idea of fun, and it won’t change my clinical impression.”

You smile wryly.

“That’s more consideration than any other doctor has shown me in… probably ever.”

“Sounds like you’ve been seeing the wrong doctors, darlin’.”

The pet name sets butterflies aflutter in your stomach and your heart skips a little as he leans closer to touch you again.  His fingertips land along either side of your neck, gently prodding, eliciting tenderness from your sore and swollen lymph nodes.  You keep a slight wince in check as he presses on a particularly painful spot, but it doesn’t escape his notice.  He pulls away again moments later, raising an eyebrow at you.

“I thought we had a deal,” he teases gently.  “You were supposed to tell me if it was too much.”

You roll your eyes and can’t help smiling a bit.  

“And when it gets to be too much, you’ll know.”

He nods in acknowledgement and reaches for his stethoscope, slipping it on and pressing the disc to his palm to warm it for a few moments before reaching for you.  A wordless exchange of nods assures him of your consent and he reaches forward to slip the stethoscope beneath the neckline of your shirt, touching it to the skin over your heart.  You breathe as slowly and quietly as you can in hopes that you won’t trigger a coughing spell, and after a few moments of moving the disc around and listening carefully, Dr. McCoy pulls back, satisfied.

“Can you lean forward?“  He asks softly.

You comply with only a little bit of difficulty, the weakness in your muscles making it a bit challenging to prop yourself up.  The doctor puts a steadying hand on your shoulder, keeping you still and supported as he leans in closer to listen to your lungs.  As he moves the stethoscope around to different spots on your back, you become acutely aware of the scent of his cologne.  It’s faint thanks to your congestion, but still evident enough that you can pick out notes of cedar and cinnamon.  It’s a warm, pleasant scent and you miss it immediately when he finishes up and guides you back into a more comfortable position.

He meets your gaze, smiling apologetically as he hands his stethoscope around his neck and smoothes his palms over his thighs.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I think you’ve got pneumonia,” he explains.  “I’d need an x-ray to be sure, but given your history and symptoms, I’m going to treat it as such.”

You frown.

“Pneumonia?  Isn’t that really bad?”

The doctor shakes his head.

“Nothing a course of antibiotics and a little TLC won’t fix,” he assures you.  “And luckily for you I’ve got the medication on hand so you don’t have to try and battle this storm to get to a pharmacy.”

You smile gratefully and watch as he moves to stand and put his equipment away.  As he does, you shift and swing your legs over the side of the bed.  You stand and wait a moment for the dizziness to pass before moving to pick up your housecoat, slipping it back on as Dr. McCoy picks up his bag.  You lead the way out of the bedroom and back toward the living room, glancing out the window as you open your mouth to thank him.

The expression of gratitude dies on your lips as you get a look at what’s going on outside.

Since the two of you entered your bedroom for the exam, the snowfall has grown exponentially thicker.  You can scarcely see end of the front steps through the blizzard, let alone the driveway, and you frown at the thought of sending Dr. McCoy out in those conditions.  You turn to look at him as he comes up behind you.

“It’s not safe to drive in this,” you say worriedly.  “You should call Christine, let her know you’re going to wait out the storm.”

Dr. McCoy smiles.

“I don’t want to impose.  I’ll be fine if I take it slow.”

You shake your head.

“Nonsense.  I’m sure it won’t last all that long.  Make yourself at home, call the clinic, and I’ll get you something to drink.”

Dr. McCoy gently grasps your arm as you turn to make your way toward the kitchen.  He gestures to the sofa.

“You’ll do no such thing,” he asserts.  “You need to rest.  Have a seat, get comfortable, and I’ll make you some fresh tea.  Doctor’s orders.”

You feel your face heat but you nod, smiling gratefully.

“Thank you.  The least you can do is let me call Christine to let her know you’ll be a while, then.”

He nods, setting his bag down near the door and making his way to the kitchen.

“I’d appreciate that, thanks.”

As he busies himself with putting the kettle on to make you some fresh tea, you pull out your phone and call over to the clinic, letting Christine know what’s happening.  She has enough tact not to ask you how things went over the phone, but the second you hang up you feel your phone buzz and you roll your eyes at the message that pops up.

_So what do you think of the new doc?_

You shake your head a little, smiling wryly as you text back.

_What, no “are you going to live” first?  I’m wounded._

Christine’s message follows moments later.

_Don’t be so dramatic,  you’re going to be just fine, I’m sure.  Now spill._

You’re about to text back when Dr. McCoy appears behind you, startling you and causing you to fumble your phone.  You quickly slide it under a loose flap of your housecoat lest any incriminating texts come through while he’s in range.

“How do you take your tea?”  He asks.

“Honestly, I can’t taste anything right now anyway, so just plain tea is fine, thank you.”

He gives you a sympathetic smile and disappears back into the kitchen.  As he prepares your drinks, you shake out a blanket from where it’s been draped over the arm of the couch and tuck it in around yourself to fight off the chills wracking your body.  Dr. McCoy appears beside you as you settle in and sets two mugs down on the coffee table before quickly moving off again.  When he returns once more, he’s got his med kit in hand.  He takes a seat beside you, setting it on the floor and unzipping one of the pockets.  You watch as he pulls out a couple of medication bottles and shakes some tablets into a little plastic medication cup.  He holds it out to you.

“Clarithromycin and acetaminophen,” he explains.  “For the infection and the fever.”

You take the cup, tipping the tablets into your mouth before chasing them with a careful sip of the tea.  It’s hot enough to scald your tongue a little, but not so hot that it’s intolerable.  Setting the cup and your mug aside, you settle back into the couch cushions.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

You watch him as he picks up his mug and takes a sip of the tea, his gaze going to the window beside your fireplace.  The snow is still coming down in droves outside and the barely-there sunlight is fading as evening inches closer.  Your gaze lingers on his handsome features as you sit in a companionable silence and your heart skips a beat the longer you look at him.

He pulls his phone out a moment later, pulling open his weather app and cursing softly.  He catches himself, though, his cheeks flushing a little at the language he’s just used.

“Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly.  “Knee-jerk reaction to the weather report.  I really should get going before I get snowed in.”

You frown as you consider the dangers of the heavy snowfall on mountain roads.

“I’d be happy for you to stay the night,” you assure him.  “I’ve got lots of space and it’s better than the alternative.  I can’t bear the thought of you ending up in a ditch in this, or worse. And I’m sure there’s someone closer to town that can cover the clinic for you tomorrow, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He seems reluctant, but eventually concedes with a nod.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he says gratefully.  “It’ll be a relief not to have to navigate through the storm, and this way I can keep a close eye on you overnight.”

The thought of having his gentle hands on you again ignites a heat beneath your skin that has nothing to do with your fever.  You avert your gaze a little, unable to help the small smile that pulls at your lips.  You take a moment to compose yourself before meeting his eyes once more, flashing him a more neutral but friendly smile.

“Let me make dinner at least,” Dr. McCoy offers.  “To show my gratitude, and to give you a chance to get some proper rest.”

You consider fighting him on it for a moment, but the offer sounds far too tempting to turn down.  You nod at last, sagging back into the cushions with relief.

“That sounds lovely,” you agree.

The two of you spend the next little while chatting until you start to feel your energy wane.  Your fatigue doesn’t go unnoticed and Dr. McCoy eventually urges you to lie down for a nap while he gets a start on dinner.  He gently tucks the blanket in around you as you recline and gets one more quick reading of your temperature before he leaves you to rest.  As you listen to him moving around in the kitchen, you can’t help but smile.  What had started out as an awful day had drastically improved and it was far from over.  With Dr. McCoy for company, you know you’ll feel much better in no time.

As you close your eyes to rest, you make a mental note to send Christine a thank you text in the morning.


End file.
